The Nigerian Army has just put out a call for fresh recruits. Young men and women are invited to step forward, sign up, and defend their country. In support of this noble cause, a full-page newspaper advertisement proudly displays two soldiers clutching Kalashnikov rifles—symbols not just of service, but, perhaps unintentionally, of a military imagination stuck in another era.
Developed in the aftermath of World War II by Russian small arms designer Mikhail Kalashnikov, and accepted as a standard Russian Army weapon in 1947, the AK 47 has become one of the most widely used and adapted firearms in modern military history. Still, it is an icon of how war was once fought, now pressed into service in Nigeria not just as a tool of war, but as a symbol of national strength.
Perhaps the next recruitment drive will feature cavalry on horseback.
There is, of course, nothing wrong with a Kalashnikov. It is reliable, durable, and has survived more wars than most generals. But in an age of drones, satellite surveillance, cyber warfare, and precision-guided missiles, presenting the AK 47 as the centerpiece of military aspiration is a bit like advertising a typewriter at a tech startup conference.
It tells a story—just not the one intended.
Brave Soldiers, Antique Thinking
Nigeria does not lack brave soldiers. That has never been the problem. From peacekeeping missions across West and Central Africa to countless internal deployments, Nigerian troops have repeatedly shown courage under fire.
What Nigeria appears to lack today is a security philosophy that has kept pace with reality; the brainpower required to make firepower count.
The battlefield has changed. The enemy has changed. Even war itself has changed. But the system—judging by both messaging and outcomes—often behaves as though none of this has happened.
Between 2006 and 2017, Nigeria’s annual defence spending averaged over ₦1 trillion. Since 2021, allocations have risen sharply—by some estimates between 25 and 50 percent year-on-year—placing Nigeria among Africa’s highest military spenders.
Yet the number of terror attacks reported yearly has spiraled; the number of people killed or kidnapped continues to rise, while the figures for the wounded and internally displaced grow ever more alarming.
As you read this, nearly 4 million Nigerians are living in 3900 IDP camps across the country, according to the International Organization for Migration (IOM)—driven from their towns and villages by conflict, terror or insurgency.
While some neighbouring countries—Niger, Chad, Cameroon—have made uneven but notable progress in containing insurgent threats, Nigeria remains deeply entrenched in conflict. Clearly, all is not well with our approach.
Today’s adversaries are not hiding nervously in caves waiting to be flushed out. They are posting videos online, issuing advance notices of attacks, ambushing military convoys, and occasionally raiding military installations with a confidence that would be admirable if it were not so alarming.
In this curious inversion of roles, the hunter sometimes appears to be the one nervously glancing over his shoulder.
The Mystery of the Vanishing Enemy
Official reports of military operations often follow a familiar script: troops advance, camps are raided, a few motorcycles are recovered, and the enemy—ever considerate—has already vacated the premises.
One might reasonably ask: how does an enemy so consistently absent manage to remain so persistently effective?
Where is the intelligence that tracks movement, intercepts communication, and anticipates action? Where are the disrupted supply lines, the captured commanders, the actionable interrogations that turn one arrest into ten?
War, even in its most chaotic form, leaves evidence—footprints, networks, consequences. In Nigeria’s case, the evidence often seems to evaporate, leaving behind only press statements and unanswered questions.
We are busy fighting well armed terrorist foot soldiers when it would have been more efficient to sever their supply chains, block their funding pipelines, neutralize their command structures, circle their operational bases and watch them wither away.
Buying Hardware, Renting Strategy
To be fair, Nigeria has not entirely ignored modern military technology. There have been acquisitions—aircraft, equipment, and systems procured at considerable cost.
But technology is not a magic wand. Without integration, training, maintenance, and a coherent doctrine, it becomes expensive decoration.
A drone, for instance, is only as effective as the intelligence framework guiding it. Surveillance without response is just aerial sightseeing. Firepower without coordination is deadly noise. Deploying a multi-million-dollar fighter jet for missions that lower-cost drones can execute is not strength; it is inefficiency.
The real deficit is not hardware. It is strategy.
The Curious Case of “Repentance”
Then there is the delicate matter of “repentant” insurgents—former fighters who, having waged war against the state and claimed many victims, are generously rehabilitated and, in some cases, reintegrated.
In theory, this is enlightened policy. In practice, it raises uncomfortable questions.
How are these individuals vetted? How is loyalty assured? Are we not encouraging others to take up arms against the state? And how does one explain to a soldier risking life and limb that yesterday’s adversary may become tomorrow’s colleague?
Even in the best-designed programmes, perception matters. And right now, perception is doing the Nigerian armed forces no favours.
Enemies Known, Enemies Unnamed
No insurgency of this scale survives on determination alone. It requires funding, logistics, supply chains, and—often—external support from other nations or corporations.
From time to time, officials hint at foreign involvement and highly placed local collaborators. Names are never named. Details are never provided. Suspects are never put on trial. The public is left to fill in the blanks, which it does with enthusiasm and very little evidence.
Why are our political and military leaders so afraid to openly name Nigeria’s real adversaries with evidence? Are there people benefiting from an endless war with a masked and vanishing enemy? Or has the war, in some respects, taken on the character of theatre?
Meanwhile, Nigeria continues to seek assistance from abroad, sometimes from the very global networks it quietly suspects.
It is a bit like reporting a burglary while inviting every neighbour—guilty or not—into the living room.
The Politics of Helplessness
Perhaps the most curious aspect of the entire situation is the insistence that citizens remain largely defenceless.
The state struggles to guarantee security, yet resists any serious conversation about decentralizing aspects of it. Communities under threat are advised to remain calm, stay vigilant, and wait—for help that often arrives after the fact.
It is a remarkable arrangement: a monopoly on protection without a guarantee of protection.
A Recruitment Drive, or a Reality Check?
Which brings us back to the recruitment advertisement.
It asks young Nigerians to step forward into a system that is visibly strained, strategically uncertain, and, at times, operationally outmaneuvered.
Patriotism is a powerful motivator. But patriotism alone cannot compensate for structural deficiencies. Courage is admirable; it should not be the only plan.
If Nigeria truly seeks to inspire a new generation to serve, it must offer more than uniforms, Kalashnikovs and slogans. It must present a credible vision of a modern, effective, and accountable security architecture—one that matches or outpaces the complexity of the threats it faces.
Until then, the message risks sounding less like a call to service and more like an invitation to inherit a problem no one has quite figured out how to solve.
And young Nigerians, contrary to popular belief, can tell the difference—and are increasingly unwilling to pretend otherwise.
Victor Anazonwu is an author, public affairs analyst and member, Editorial Board of The Renaissance Online Magazine.
